Display Case for the Ductwork

   Ladies, I implore you...

   Our work space was a huge, expansive single floor with about 300 cubicles. Sort of a cubicle farm.  Women, especially young women, tend to turn out for this work.  As a team leader, I spent most of my day milling around helping fellow readers score essay answers to standardized test questions.  I peer over shoulders at monitors, and down at faces.  It's not exactly a professional job, and the dress code is pretty casual.

   You know, if a woman wants to show lots of tit at the club or even at the grocery store, great.  But at work, what are you doing?  Many women, especially the younger ones, don't seem to realize the extent to which they insinuate themselves into the male brain, a brain that just might be stuck at work carrying around a 3 and 1/2 day encumbrance.  Sometimes I'll be walking down an aisle, look up at someone and think, Put that away.  Jesus.  (Other times it's more like, Pick that up.)

   There were two women on my team named Sabrina.  Both sexy.  Black Sabrina, the type of girl who was probably used to getting her way, was a very nice person, but she tested authority.  She would take her own "break before the break."

   Guys would wander over from other projects to chat with her.  Big Glen, our data monitor with a front butt, said, "This is getting out of hand."  I joked with him  that we should set up one of those deli number dispensers at her cubicle.

   "I know, Glen.  There are two black guys and three white guys who come by all the time.  Four, counting me."  Blame it on the wanderbra.

   She had a sweet set of B cups.  I don't know what these brassieres are called, but  hers may as well have been "The Erector Set," or "Display Case for the Ductwork."  She provided a sweet view from above.  The luxuriating mid-size mams with that little strip of connecting fabric.  I was seriously asking myself if I could afford to be let go.

   If you hold a Milk Bone in front of a dog, he's gonna look.  He's gonna do more than look.

   Once in a while a student's essay needs to be flagged and sent higher up.  Anything mentioning suicide, other violence, pregnancy talk, stuff like that.  One day four minutes before dismissal, white Sabrina raises her hand.  She's also in her mid-20s, not quite as angelic, but really pushes the boundaries with her display.  When I get over there, she says, "Is this an Alert?"  (Something about building a bomb and blowing things up.)

   I looked down over her and thought, You bet it is.  Jesus!  I'm seein' pink.  I'm seein' blue veins.  Secure the perimeter!  This is a major alert. Then, conjuring up Groucho, I'm all,  Lady, please!  I need this job.  I've got kids to feed.  And from the looks of it, so do you.